Cricket Song
by Riddelly
Summary: Dean's got no idea how to deal with this. De-aged Sam; three-shot.
1. 1

**A/N** _This is written as a request for Sylvia Griffin3. She more or less told me to write a de-aged Sam fic, and so that's what I did. And this is set mid-season one, I suppose, just because I wanted to keep it as brother-centric as possible without worrying about the other major characters and relationships later on. Enjoy, please review!__  
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**Rated T** _for language and slight violence_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**1/3**

"Sammy!" Dean shouts in warning, the name sharp and abrasive against his throat as he ducks a particularly heavy blast of thick purple-swirled light. It ricochets off the wooden wall of the dingy basement that they're backed into, tears a massive hole in it and sends just about a million splinters heading straight for him. He pulls an arm over his head and squeezes his eyes to slits, open just enough to detect the blurry figure of the creature they're trying and failing to kill. _Creature, _because this can't be a witch, even if they were initially sure of it—no mundane witch can actually cast spells, fucking _Harry Potter _spells right from its bare hands. Not just magic, but goddamn energy vortexes that could only be more clichéd if the witch-thing had been holding a wand. He doesn't even know what the hell they do, seeing as he's been able to avoid them so far even as they rip apart his surroundings, but he can bet that it's nothing good.

He swears as another jet of light, this time a pale aquamarine, comes shooting in his direction. He's gonna bruise from all this flinging himself to the ground, that's for sure. "Sam?" he calls out again, pulling himself behind a dusty, broken-down set of drawers. For a moment, there's silence, and he tilts his head back against the wood, closes his eyes and breathes quick and fast. His hands fumble with the gun in his lap, silent curse words spilling from his lips. There's no way that bullets are gonna work on this thing, whatever the hell it is, but he was stupid enough not to come with any other weapons, and Sam's silence is getting too ominous for his taste. Hitching up a deep breath in his chest, he heaves himself up in a single swift movement, swinging around and extending his gun arm, a fierce glare settling into place as he points it straight at the shadowy figure's chest and fires without hesitation.

A high-pitched shriek rents the dusty air, grating against his eardrums, so painful that he almost drops the gun. But this thing might have hurt Sam, and that's enough motivation for him to keep his arm in place and his face cold, loading the creature with as many bullets as he can manage before it finally flies sideways, its long arms flinging out in what might be surrender as a steamy hiss creeps from its darkened form. Even if the shots haven't done it any damage, it definitely seems irritated, and, to Dean's relief, it zips up the stairs of the cellar, still whining and moaning like the most stereotypical of ghosts until it finally melts away, leaving the faintest trace of a chilling wail in the damp air.

"What the _hell _was that?" he asks aloud, doubling over and resting his hands on his knees. There's four heartbeats' worth of silence, punctuated only by his own heavy, exhausted gasps, before he starts to realize that something is definitely wrong.

"Sam," he mutters for the third time, quickly followed by the fourth and fifth as he straightens up and glances around the corners of the low-ceilinged underground room. "Sammy? Sam, where are you?" Almost nervously, he begins to tread through the wreckage, wood and glass fragments scraping against the cement floor under his feet. "Sammy!" _Goddamn, that magic light crap must've hit him, now he's gonna be hurt or worse—no, not worse, that's not allowed, that can't happen. Dad's gonna kill me, hell, I'm gonna kill myself if he's not okay… _There's no denying the desperate anxiety that's clawing at him from the inside now, hot and fierce.

He's just about to yell again, even though he realizes how useless such a thing must be at this point, when a now-unidentifiable piece of destroyed furniture shifts slightly, and a tiny groan slips out from underneath it.

In moments, he's knelt beside the shattered ruin of wood panels and table legs, gun set on the floor beside him, hastily pulling aside the broken pieces and ignoring the sharp bits that poke at and embed themselves in his palms, fingers. "Sam, you in there?" he questions, his voice softer now, trying to hold his heart still.

The whimpers sound again, and then he can see him—all three feet's worth, curled into a miniature fetal position with the little hands clutched tight around the skinny knees.

"…Sam?" he repeats blankly, unable to keep himself from gaping.

Sam stares back, his face full of terror and confusion, all round cheeks and trembling lips and big, fucking gigantic dark eyes that are brimming with tears, tears all too befitting of the tiny kid that he's somehow gotten himself turned into.

"Dean?"

* * *

They pull into the parking lot of the Evergreen Motel a half hour later, the Impala's engine purring to a halt as the golden headlights illuminate the gravelly ground before them. Dean switches off the ignition, pockets the key, and glances into the backseat, squinting in the sudden darkness. Sam's curled up there, barely visible in the corner of the seat, which is big enough to hold three of him. Even as a kid, he's skinny as a stick, and covered only by the adult Sam's shirt, which works as a nightgown for him. How old is he, anyways—four? Five? Younger? Something ridiculous like that, and he apparently has a mind to match his body, too, judging by the soft questions that he tentatively voiced during the ride. (_Dean, where are we going? Are we there yet? Where's Dad? Can we stop and eat?—_to which the almost exclusive retort was _Shut up and hold on, we're almost there._)

"Alright," Dean grumbles now, "we're just gonna check in here for the night, okay? Get some rest, figure this crap out in the morning." _Hope it's fixed itself by morning, in other words. _If it doesn't, he has no idea what he's gonna do. Try to contact Bobby, he supposes, just hope that the damn thing reverses itself at _some _point. He's got no idea what he'll do if Sam stays this way permanently—but that's impossible, it's got to be. The last thing he needs in life is for his hunting partner's age to be set back a good two decades. Hell, does Sam even remember all those years of training, at this point? His soft-spoken comments haven't been enough to reveal whether or not he recalls any of his life beyond the portion leading up to the age that his physique currently reflects.

Sam nods and hops out of his seat as Dean opens the car door, then follows him into the fluorescent lighting of the shitty little motel, scampering along to keep up with his brother's much longer stride. His shirt drags on the floor, but the odd attire goes unnoticed by the tired-looking receptionist who looks up from behind the desk, her dusty brown eyes carrying the flatness that most people's tend to at this time of night.

"One room, two beds?" she asks, her voice low and morose.

"Yeah, thanks." Sam's big enough for his own bed, right? Surely so. Dean shifts from foot to foot as she nods, tucks a few strands of graying hair behind her rather prominent ear. A battered nametag pinned to her stiff shirt reads _Tracy. _She's too old for a job like this, should have a proper occupation, but he doesn't comment. Not like he can claim better, after all.

"I'm going to need your credit card, sir," Tracy murmurs, reaching under the desk and withdrawing a metal key—an actual _key_. This place is ancient. Dean nods hastily and reaches into his back pocket, whipping out his card and sliding it across to Tracy. She scans it quickly, barely glancing at the name lettered on it. "Owen Lars…" She hands it back to him along with the key, a line of confusion forming between her thin eyebrows. "Isn't that some character—?"

"No idea," Dean lies, trying to hold back a wince. And here he'd thought that the name of Luke Skywalker's uncle was a rather subtle alias.

She shrugs, lapsing back into her exhausted stupor with a mutter of "You're in room twelve."

"Thanks. Here, come on, Sammy…"

The little kid is now eyeing a plastic dish on Tracy's desk, which holds a number of swirled red-and-white mint candies. His wide eyes gleam with want, and Dean hisses out a frustrated breath, grabbing him by the tiny wrist and pulling him away despite his whine of protest.

"Sugar's the last thing you need right now_,_" he snaps lowly as they start down the hallway, which is carpeted in dreadfully monotonous gray. "You've gotta try and get some sleep, then we're gonna go to Bobby's in the morning."

Sam nods rather sadly, his shoulders slumping in disappointment, and a quick, ridiculous stab of guilt twists in Dean's chest. There's no reason for him to feel _bad _for the stupid little tot. Being a kid isn't going to hurt Sam—at least, he hopes it's not. It would be ridiculous if it was… wouldn't it? Or was the spell more sinister than a simple age reversal?

He pushes such thoughts to the very corner of his mind, where they join concerns about his dad and a thousand other little issues that have no place in his conscious thoughts. A helpful distraction arrives in the form of the number _12, _scratchily painted onto the white wooden door that they're approaching. Dean slips in the key and opens it after a bit of a struggle—the lock is rather sticky—to reveal a small room, barely big enough to fit the two rickety twin-size beds and single small side table shoved into it. There's not even a freaking TV. The place is a _dive, _Dean thinks in disgust as Sam wanders in behind him, if lodgings can be referred to as such.

"I don't like it here," Sam announces immediately. "It's ugly."

"Yeah, tell me about it, squirt." Groaning, he flops down in the nearest bed, staring into the murky darkness as Sam quietly pushes the door shut. The rusty springs whine in protest. "Only have to stay for a night, though. Go on, get to bed…"

"Teeth," Sam protests. Dean squints over at him, his miniscule silhouette, draped in that oversized shirt, barely visible. "I need to brush them. My mouth tastes bad."

"You'll survive a night," he snorts. That was Sammy, he figures; determined not to go a night with a dirty mouth even at age four. Or something near four, in any case. "And before you ask, no, we don't have any pajamas either. Just get into bed and close your eyes and don't wake me up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or anything. I'm not your mom."

Sam's eyes widen at the last word, and Dean's stomach takes a furious, downwards swerve. _Right. Great job, now you're going to get him upset. _Himself upset, as well, though that thought wasn't allowed to materialize. God damn, he really is exhausted, if he's speaking clumsily enough to inadvertently bring _her _up. He's sharper than that, usually. "Just… get into bed," he repeats, turning on his side and wrapping his arms around the pillow, pressing his eyes into his forearm.

There's a small sigh from behind him, and he makes a show of adjusting his position, settling down, showing that he's not going to tuck Sam into bed or any crap like that. A few moments pass, then a quiet shuffling tells him that his brother is taking care of such a thing on his own.

_Good. _He ignores the slight twist of guilt in his stomach, the thought that maybe four years old isn't enough for Sam to be taking care of himself.

They're not average people, though. They never have been. And Sam's not a kid, not really. He can manage.

At least, that's what Dean tells himself, and it successfully pushes his discomfort aside long enough for him to get to sleep.

* * *

The crying wakes him up.

He's not sure how it manages to, since it's so quiet, just a soft series of sniffles. Much more muted than a four-year-old's should be, unmistakably muffled by a pillow. He tries to shake it off at first, recognizing that he must not have been sleeping for long by the heavy exhaustion that still weighs him down and the strained headache pounding at his skull. But there's something about the little whimpers that creeps down his spine, sets him on edge, and after a good three minutes or so he sits up in bed, a hiss of frustration escaping his lips.

Sam silences himself immediately, a single quick sniff followed by quietness. Dean contemplates trying to sleep again, pretending that he never heard anything, but before he can reach a definite decision, the thump of discarded covers from the other bed reaches his ears. He rolls his eyes into the darkness, then focuses on the tiny figure walking towards him, its head down and shoulders slumped.

"Hey, Sammy, I thought I told you to get some sleep," he mumbles thickly. His tone is somehow much more tender than he intended. "We gotta get up pretty early tomorrow, you know. It's already…" A quick glance at the clock. "Already past three."

"I can't sleep," Sam protests. His wide eyes reflect the faint light filtering through the single window's thin curtain. "The bed's too big."

"Well, sorry, but I can't exactly get you a cradle."

He bites his lip, tear trails glinting on his cheeks. God. If the adult Sam has a decent puppy-dog face, than this is just freaking _ridiculous. _He looks like a cartoon, a caricature of a pleading toddler, and that's even in the low light.

"Alright," Dean finally huffs, "you want to get in bed with me?"

He nods seriously, and heaves himself up on to the mattress at Dean's grudging gesture. Immediately, he scoots to the edge of the covers, which Dean hasn't even bothered to un-tuck, and pulls them loose, slipping his tiny body underneath the cold sheets. "It's cozier under here," he points out as if confused, tugging the blanket up to his chin.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Probably hot as hell, though."

"Cozy," he repeats, giving a small shrug.

Dean watches him until his eyes begin to ache, unable to help focusing on the sticky tear trails that still streak his round cheeks. He's just so damn little, tucked into bed with his eyes wide open. So lonely.

"You should get under the blankets," Sam comments. "You look cold."

A shiver runs down Dean's spine as if prompted by his brother's words, and he clenches his teeth, reluctantly pulling the covers down and sliding in next to him. "There," he growls, making sure that one arm is still lying on top of the blankets, the other bent under his head. "Good enough for you? Will you actually _sleep _now?"

Sam nods as though such a thing is obvious, and, for the first time, a faint smile twitches at the corners of his mouth as he closes his eyes and presses himself into Dean's chest. "You're warm," he mumbles, and, within moments, he's out like a light.

Dean sighs, his arm moving to encircle the tiny ball of warmth snuggled next to him. It's been ages since he's slept with someone—honest-to-God _slept _with them, not using such a phrase as a euphemism for fucking, and it's comforting. In little Sammy's own words, _cozy. _

He catches himself wishing, in the vague dream world of half-sleep, that they could do this more often. Maybe if he was more awake he'd realize how ridiculous such a thought is, but he's not, and so he doesn't.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Bobby, I don't know how the hell it happened. We thought we were tracking a normal witch, but then it went all Gandalf on us and blasted him right into this."

Sam watches the exchange between the two older men with a naïve sort of solemnness in his wide eyes, curled up on the corner of Bobby's worn couch with a tattered patchwork quilt clutched between his tiny fingers. His eyes are shadowed with pale purple, a result of his four hours of sleep the previous night. Adult Sam would be used to such a thing, but the miniaturized kid obviously isn't.

"This is a complex spell that he's under, though," Bobby points out, leafing through one of his many thick old volumes, this one's yellowed pages full of spidery text and eerie illustrations detailing the finer aspects of sorcery. "Nothin' that could be cast from a short distance like that, not to mention in such an immediate timeframe."

"I'm just telling you what I saw, okay?" Dean folds his arm and leans against the wall, his stare flickering back and forth between the aged hunter and the tiny one. "If it made sense, we wouldn't be here in the first place."

"I don't know, boy, you tend to come here looking for some pretty damn obvious answers," Bobby grouches, reaching out to take another swig of beer from the amber bottle beside him. It's clear that they haven't caught him in the best of moods, but Dean could hardly care less, to be honest. Their issues at the moment are far from trivial, even compared with the usual peril that the two Winchesters tend to find themselves in.

"Well, this one's not obvious," he snaps. "And it's bad, too. We need answers."

"I don't have answers," is the irritated response, and the book is slammed shut, dust filling the air. "It's obviously some sort of curse, but as for the caster—your guess is as good as mine."

"Dammit." Dean looks over towards Sam again, whose eyes are starting to droop shut despite the stream of light filling the room. "He can't stay like this, it'll screw everything up."

"Then your best bet is to hope it wears off." Bobby shrugs, and for a moment, there's a glint of sympathy in his exhausted eyes. "I know it's not easy to deal with kids, Dean, but you don't have any other option. I know a couple of hunters, young women who are out of the country right now—I'm sure they wouldn't mind you using their house. You will need a house," he adds sternly, "'Cause there's no way that you're gonna go hunting like this."

Sickening desperation twists Dean's stomach. "There's no way at all?" he demands, franticness rising in his tone. "You can't… come on, there's got to be something…"

"There ain't a thing we can do but wait it out. Do you want that house or not?"

By now, Sam's dozing, his cheek pressed into the couch cushion and his diminutive chest rising and falling steadily. Dean doesn't want to stop hunting, but he can't leave Sam behind, either. Of course he can't.

What if it _is_ irreversible…?

Sammy mumbles in his sleep, a wordless slur of sound, and turns his head the other way. His hair, lighter than the adult version's, sticks up in all directions, squashed into spikes.

"Fine," Dean mutters, gazing down at the ground. "We'll take it."


	2. 2

**A/N** _Wow, this little story definitely got way more attention than I expected, thank you so much! c: Here's part two~__  
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**Thanks to** _Sylvia Griffin3, KKBELVIS, tvj12, BloodyRosie, Panda24, lizziemarie0529, and key-to-life_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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**2/3**

The door creaks open slowly, rusty hinges releasing a shriek of protest. The room it reveals is dark, with heavy drapes drawn over the curtains, preventing the dusted daylight from reaching the inside of the house.

Dean scowls and reaches in, running his hand along the rough wood of the wall until he reaches a light switch. He can feel Sam's fingers tight on his jacket. His brother is just as curious as he is, eager to see the home of the two female hunters that Bobby directed them to.

"Doesn't look like much," he grumbles, flicking the switch and casting deep golden light over the antique rugs and overstuffed couches filling the space before them. The first impression he gets of the place is that there's a hell of a lot of _fabric; _patchwork, mostly, lots of plum and navy and forest green, taking the form of sofas and armchairs. Plenty of dust, as well, but only a thin layer, a silver film to remind them that the house isn't being lived in right now. It will be soon enough, though.

Kicking the door shut behind him, Dean begins to wind his way through the many narrow hallways of the place, turning on the lights as he goes. It's a bit musty-smelling, but with an under-layer that's almost spicy, could be pleasant if he's given enough time to adjust to it. And, he reflects as he opens the door of the refrigerator, shoved against the floral-papered wall of the tiny kitchen, chances are that he will. If Bobby couldn't find a solution, there's no foreseeable way out for the time being.

He doesn't want Sam to stay a kid. Not at all. The costs of such a prospect are so overwhelming that his stomach begins to churn just at the thought… material expenses have already amounted to higher than he'd hoped, with the price of buying Sam a couple of decent outfits, even though he got them from secondhand stores. And, then, of course, the danger that both of them would be put in, the _vulnerability… _they couldn't keep hunting like this, and if they stopped hunting—well, Dean hates to think about what would happen if he stops hunting. Because driving, driving in the Impala with music blasting to the skies, the engine roaring under the cushions, and—most importantly—Sam seated beside him, his hazel eyes gazing tiredly out the window or lifted in an exasperated roll… that's how Dean runs. Runs from it all.

If he ever stops, it might catch up with him. And that would be his downfall.

He slams the fridge shut perhaps a bit more violently than necessary, allowing the sound to jar him out of the pool of despair that had been welling up inside of him. "Doesn't look like there's much in here," he grumbles, "I think we're gonna have to go shopping…" When there's no response, he frowns and glances over his shoulder. The room is empty save a two-chaired table, old-fashioned stove, and several dark gray shadows. "Sam?" he calls warily, and the sound heightens to a yell moments later. "Sammy!"

There's panic in his stomach, completely ridiculous, unreasonable panic, and it's clawing at his ribcage as he hurries back into the living room, hissing doubts directly into the rapid, chaotic flow of his mind—_you dared to take your eyes off of him for one second, you fucking idiot, and this is what you get, _and then the self-scolding switches to pure terror, and for a moment he can understand the panic in mothers' eyes whenever their children are endangered. Because Sam's too little to take care of himself right now, and though that silence could usually be attributed to his grumpy attitude, its emptiness seems horribly ominous this time around, considering his de-aging.

_Just be safe, Sammy, just answer me. Just be safe. _

Relief absolutely floods him as soon as he sees his brother's small silhouette, dark against the glow of the window he stands in front of. The folds of the dark, velvety curtain are clutched in his fist, drawn away to allow a stream of pale sunlight to filter in. The room looks much warmer, somehow, when lit naturally, and as Dean slowly exhales, a tiny, ridiculous hint of hope tugs at his chest.

Maybe, just _maybe, _this will work somehow.

"Don't wander off," he mutters gruffly, hurrying up and wrapping Sammy in a loose, one-armed hug. "Not even into the other room, just—just stay close, okay?"

He nods quickly, his eyes downcast in shameful apology. "I won't," he promises, "I just… I just wanted to let the light in. It was too dark."

"Well—we can keep it open for now on, okay?"

"Thanks." His mouth stretches into what can almost be called a grin, his small, pearly teeth gleaming and his eyes shining with utter childish gratefulness.

Without thinking about it, Dean smiles back.

* * *

The grocery store is cold, very cold. Air conditioning, Dean thinks grudgingly, should be turned off when it's raining outside. His damp arms and face are buffeted by waves of icy air from the vents lining the white walls, and Sammy, standing next to him, is racked by a series of shivers. The younger brother's hair is clinging to his cheeks with moisture, and his elbows wrap tightly around his skinny torso. He doesn't complain, though. Just stays quiet and wide-eyed as always as Dean pulls out a creaky cart and glances down the aisles.

He doesn't know the first thing about shopping. This becomes immediately evident as he rolls the cart slowly past boxes of dry goods and freezers of colorful produce, lingering here and there but never picking anything up. Sam follows him without questioning, the soles of his slightly oversized shoes tapping along the linoleum floor.

"Anything in particular you want for dinner?" he asks lowly, trying not to meet the eyes of any of the other adults standing nearby. Even without looking in their direction, he can tell that they're giving him rather disapproving glances at his obvious inadequacy.

Sam shrugs uncomfortably and sidles even closer up to Dean's side, reaching up to clutch his belt loop as an elderly woman gives him a rather patronizing smile.

"Aren't you a sweetheart?" she says sweetly, her eyes crinkling and her green shopping basket swinging from the crook of her arm.

He turns away, pressing his face into Dean's hip, and her response is a tinkling laugh. "Yours?" she asks, glancing up towards Dean himself.

"Um. Yeah, I guess," he coughs awkwardly, attempting to look busy with sifting through several boxes of macaroni noodles.

"Well, young man, congratulations. You have a very beautiful son."

"Wh—no, oh no, he's not…"

But she's already trotting off, and he's left to grimace in embarrassment, Sam still holding on tight to his leg. Of course, he realizes, the two of them are more than twenty years apart now; they must look much more like father and son than any sort of brothers. Well, that's a bit of a complication, and one that he doesn't want to think about the possible results of.

They end up buying a few boxes of pasta, as well as a bag of frozen mashed potatoes, a couple of the ripest tomatoes, some uncooked hamburger patties, and white-bread buns. Enough to last a couple of days, though without much variation in meals. That's alright. They can eat out once or twice, if they need to, and come back for the future, though Dean would prefer to find a less central store with fewer prying eyes.

He ends up cooking the hamburgers for this night, and doesn't do brilliantly; they're charred around the edges and a bit pink on the inside, the tomatoes are cut unevenly and the buns are a bit too small. Sam doesn't seem to mind, though, and they taste good enough, properly soothe the gnawing in Dean's stomach that stems from the fact that they haven't eaten since Bobby's. _We'll go back to the store tomorrow, _he promises, _get some frozen pizzas. Can't go wrong with those. _

After dinner, it's quiet in their house's little living room. They have TV, which Dean flicks on and surfs boredly, but the quality is a bit scratchy despite the admirably wide screen, and the channels extremely limited, and he switches if off after a while, sufficing instead to lie back and stare at the ceiling.

Sam's balled up on the couch next to him, arms wrapped around his legs in his usual sitting position, chin settled on his knees. He's not talking, but he barely ever talks, just watches, takes it all in. Though he doesn't really want to admit it to himself, Dean is starting to get worried about his long silences. He's so little; isn't he supposed to be more talkative, more inquisitive and babbly? Not this… quiet little thing. _Was he always this serious? _

"Hey…" he starts up, then cuts himself off, sighing. Sam looks over at him curiously but doesn't speak, and, after a moment, Dean continues. "Are you doing alright? You… don't say much."

"Yeah…" Sam mumbles into his jeans.

"Are you sure?" When he doesn't get a reply, he leans in a bit closer, his eyes wide, searching. "And, Sam… do you, like… do you remember anything?"

A small frown, invisible save the downwards slant of his pale eyebrows. "Remember what?"

"You know…" Dean shifts awkwardly. "What we do. What we… were doing, before we came here."

"I remember Dad. I remember you. I remember… him, leaving, and you having to take care of me. A lot."

"What about school? College… Jessica?"

Sam's eyes widen, and for an instant, Dean's stomach gives a sick twist—_you idiot, why would you do that, why would you bring her up like that? Now he's going to be destroyed, a kid like that can't deal with such powerful emotional damage like that, he won't stop crying for days…_

But the reply that he gets is almost worse than the expected tears.

"Who's… Jessica?"

He nods—silently, to himself—and inhales shakily, fighting to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest and throat, as if a great weight has settled over his lungs. This isn't Sam. Not the Sam he knows, not _his _Sam. This is John's Sam, the Sam of their childhood, and he has no place here, now, with their dad missing and Jess dead and everything in tatters. He's too innocent to be dropped in the middle of this chaos—he belongs several years back, when they were a family, or at least some ragged semblance of one, when everything had reason to it, a method.

"Dean!" Sam repeats, sharp and almost nervous. He glances back over, blinking to dispel the slight blurriness marring his vision. "Who's Jessica?"

"No one who matters." But the question, the way it was addressed to him, brings a new issue to mind. "But, Sammy—you know who I am."

"Of course I do. You're Dean."

"Not the Dean you're used to."

He rapidly shakes his head, scowling. "No, but you're still Dean. Just… you look… weird."

"Look weird, huh?" he murmurs, his voice rough as he turns away again, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes. "Yeah. You look pretty damn weird to me, too, Sammy. Cute, though," he adds, his voice teasing and yet absent of its usual swaggering tone. It comes out hollow, dry.

Sam yawns, a light, delicate motion, and Dean hesitates only for a half-second before heaving himself to his feet, the springs of the cushy couch bouncing below him. "Ready for bed?" he asks, suppressing a yawn of his own.

"Yeah."

There's only one bed, but that's okay—they do better sleeping together, anyways. Sam is less lonely, and Dean is less anxious. They have the solid, dependable comfort of one another. Even if Dean is too old, and if Sam is too young, they're still the Winchester brothers, and they still love each other a whole _hell _of a lot, as Dean reflects sleepily, curled under the covers a half hour later with Sam snoozing against his chest. It's stupid, it _sounds _stupid, but it's true anyways, and there's nobody to stop him from thinking the truth. Not right now.

His eyes drift shut slowly, the steady motion of his brother's breathing lulling him gently. Crickets chirp outside, their melody floating through the open windows on the cool breeze, which is layered with just the faintest, sweetest hint of the earlier rain. It's dark, and it's _peaceful, _two words which have previously never gone together in Dean's vocabulary.

Maybe it should be lonely, but the little heap of warmth tucked next to him reminds him that it's not.

Dean falls asleep happy that night.

* * *

He wakes up with his lungs racing and his heart in his mouth. His mind is twisted into a state of blind desperation, and he thinks for a brief moment that he's had some sort of absurd, complex nightmare, but then he hears the scream again.

_Sam, _he tells himself insistently, even though he's so damn exhausted, still woozy from his content sleep, that he has no idea why he'd think such a thing, why such a high-pitched, obviously childish shriek would be associated with his brother. His shirt sticks to his chest as he sits straight up, chest heaving, fumbling with the sweaty sheets of the unfamiliar bed. It comes back to him in sharp bursts as he stares into the darkness—_witch thing, Sam, kid, Bobby, house, bed. _Shit. Sam.

Screaming.

He lunges to the side of the bed, his skin seeming to burn with the absence of his brother, previously huddled up against it. "Sam!" he shouts, quick and harsh, and moments later he sees him, lying on the hardwood floor, flat on his back with his mouth wide open in yet another desperate wail.

"Wait—fuck—Sammy…"

He's not sure how, but he manages to get out of the bed, on his knees, reaching out and gripping his baby brother by the shoulders. Sam grabs onto his shirt immediately, his whole body shaking with sobs, and buries his face in Dean's shoulder, screeching incessantly. Without thinking, Dean winds his fingers into Sam's hair, mumbles an awkward _shush_ing noise and rocks him slowly back and forth. The tiny body squirms against him, frantic, but he holds it firmly.

_He's not hurt. He's not hurt. He just fell out of bed, that's all, he's fine, he's fine… _yet he can't help but ask the questions anyways. "Sammy, you alright? Sammy, talk to me, kid, come on, what's wrong… bad dream?"

"F-fire," Sam hiccups. Dean's stomach plummets, but he forces himself not to react, to keep murmuring in a low, gentle tone as he runs his hand over Sam's hair over and over. Tears are beginning to stain his shirt, but he doesn't care, just lets them soak in.

"Fire?"

"Y-yes… there was… lots of fire… and a—a girl, a pretty girl…"

_Mom? _Was Sam dreaming about Mary? Surely he wouldn't remember—

"Her blood fell… on my… face."

_Jessica._

"Oh, Sammy," he whispers, clinging even tighter as his brother dissolves into wordless wails. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry." His stomach is gripped by an odd, sickening sort of numbness now—he feels horrible for Sam, of course he does, but at the same time, a tiny bit hopeful. If he could recall his girlfriend's death, then maybe his old memories are still hidden in his mind somewhere, buried deep down, locked away but not completely destroyed. Maybe there's some hope of him remembering everything.

And yet, at the same time, Dean isn't all that sure he _wants _him to, at this point. If the simple recollection of Jess's death can be this damaging, then what would he think of John's disappearance? Of the Wendigo, of Bloody Mary, of the Hook Man and all the spirits… he's too young, and even if they started out as hunters at a small age, it still seems important that Sam be spared from the most vulgar of truths.

That he stay, in the most desperate of ways, _innocent. _

Because he is innocent, and that seems more evident than ever as his sobs shrink into whimpers, then sniffles, before his eyelids slump shut and, ever so slowly, he slips into a doze curled up against Dean's shoulders, supported by the strong grip of his brother's arms.

Dean doesn't get back into bed that night. He doesn't want to disturb Sam, whose tears are still shining on his cheeks, vivid in the dim moonlight. Instead, he leans against the frame of the mattress and tilts his head back, exhaling and letting his eyes drift shut. Exhaustion tugs down on him, and even as his neck begins to cramp, he can feel his thoughts slowly slipping away.

That's alright, he decides, for now. He doesn't have to focus. There's nothing endangering them, nothing after them, and maybe things aren't all bad that way.

When he falls asleep this time, he isn't exactly happy. But he's content, and that counts for everything.

* * *

Somehow, they make it through the next day, and more after that—shopping at the too-cold grocery store, eating on the overstuffed, colorful chairs, sleeping in the creaky bed with the crickets outside. A week, two. Sam has nightmares twice more, and it takes less time to console him each incident. Dean learns to cook the burgers more evenly. The curtains are open more often, letting the light in. It's almost something he could grow used to, if given time, but time is the last thing that fate has in mind.


	3. 3

**A/N** _This final part is a bit Dean-focused, but hopefully you'll forgive me ;3 This is the last chapter, so please review!__  
_

**Thanks to** _CandyCakes,__ lizziemarie0529, WeirdyMcWeiderton, _and _Souless666_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Supernatural or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**3/3**

The phone call comes on the first day of the third week.

It's Bobby's voice, slurred with tiredness, gruff but sounding almost proud.

"I've got it."

* * *

"A what?" Sam repeats, his forehead furrowed in confusion.

"Lich. It's a… sort of witchy thing, but undead, way more powerful," Dean explains, loading and locking his handgun with a handful of the gleaming silver bullets that lay on the floor around him. The weapon feels good in his hand, full—it's been too long since a hunt—but at the same time, there's a sickening hollowness around the edges of his stomach. More to do with leaving Sammy at home alone than anything else, he figures, glancing up from his task. The kid is solemn-eyed, standing with his hands laced behind his back and his chin tilted downwards. Still somewhat shocked, apparently, from Dean's hurried explanation of what he's going to do—adjusting to the realization that he's not his proper age, that he's an adult and—hopefully—soon to regain the body of such. "You gonna be okay here? It'll only take a couple hours."

"Yeah… I'm good."

"Great." He tucks the gun under his jacket and stands up, scooping the remaining bullets back into their box. "Bobby said that any spells will reverse as soon as the thing's dead, so you should find yourself properly grown-up by the time I'm heading home."

"I don't want to be a grown-up."

He freezes, glances up in surprise. "You don't—Sam, you _are _one. This is just a curse, okay? You're just messed-up right now, and I'm going to fix you."

Sam shakes his head, his face twisted into a frown. "I—I'm not, I…"

"Trust me, kid, it'll feel a lot better once you're back to normal. It'll be less scary… you'll have your memory totally back… we can go back to looking for Dad."

"Looking for Dad?" His voice trembles.

_Shit. _Dean never _did _tell him that John was missing, did he? Only made endless excuses for his absence, invented a hundred little hunting trips that could be taking up his time… "Yeah. It's nothing you need to worry about, though, okay? Just—just stay here, and when I come back… I'll explain everything." _Not that you'll need anything explained at that point. _"But you need to _stay inside, _got that? Keep the drapes shut, don't let anyone in. I'll be as quick as I can."

Sam nods shakily, his eyes wide and swimming with moisture that Dean forces himself not to acknowledge. Instead, he takes a deep breath, looks around the room. "Okay. I'll be back as soon as I've smoked this bitch."

He hesitates for an awkward moment, about to turn away, and then Sam suddenly darts across the small distance between them, latches onto his leg and clings tight. Dean stiffens a bit in surprise before sighing and bringing himself down to a crouch. He takes ahold of Sam's tiny, shaking shoulders, looks him in the eyes.

"Hey, it's okay. Nothing to cry about."

"Be careful," Sam whispers, his eyebrows raised with delicate concern and his bottom lip jutting out to suppress tears. "Don't—don't leave me alone here."

"I'll be fine," Dean promises firmly, trying to disguise the fact that he feels vaguely as though he's been punched in the chest with an iron fist. His lungs twist and his heart throbs at the worry in his brother's eyes—what if he _doesn't _make it? What if this lich is tougher than Bobby implied, what if it gets him and he can't return, can't keep Sam safe—

No. He'll have to do this. He'll manage it; surely they've dealt with worse.

_Though everything he's encountered before has been documented, there's been no need to page through dusty books for two weeks before discovering any trace, and having that trace be nothing more than a fragment of a myth… _

"I'll be fine," he repeats, but this time his voice cracks, and he gathers Sam up to him with one arm, gently presses his lips to the softness of his brother's dark hair and squeezes his eyes shut, holding him there for a long moment. "Fine," he whispers for a third time, his breath warming Sam's forehead. Then he draws away, standing up and disengaging his thigh from the four-year-old's fierce grip.

"Remember, lock the door, and don't open it for anything," he shoots roughly over his shoulder, swallowing the inexplicable emotion tingling in his throat and stepping outside, leaving behind the colorful living room with its patchwork of couches and chairs.

The Impala is waiting in the gravel driveway, her black surface gleaming as sleekly as ever, and he pulls himself in quickly, gunning up the engine and backing out, but keeping his eyes unwillingly glued on the small form of the house, the dark curtains that are surely blocking out all the light, keeping the inside tense and dreary.

Surely Sam is mature enough to do as he says, smart enough to make it just a few hours.

He's got to be.

* * *

He brings the Impala to a rumbling halt outside of the house where it all started, its unsteady walls peeling and the shingles on its roof heavy with grayish moss. A vine of ivy creeps down the front, curling around the door hinges as if trying to seal out intruders.

Sitting back, he tightens his hand around the gun at his side. "You're gonna pay, lich bastard," he mutters, stroking the smooth metal with his thumb. Silver bullets, if Bobby's ancient tomes were correct, would kill the thing in an instant. If only he'd known so before he and Sam had gone for it the first time, it never would have been a problem—but of course he'd gone in for it like an idiot, expecting a ghost, armed with rock salt and holy water. Undead though this creature might be, neither of those things would have the slightest effect on it.

Silver, on the other hand…

Dusk is beginning to gather in the pale clouds and violet sky as he steps out of the car, the last fading sunbeams arching almost horizontally and rebounding off its black metal. The warm air is full of mosquitoes, and he swats them aside, glancing up and down the decrepit city block as he does so. Though most of the other houses aren't abandoned, they're still in horrible condition, practically decomposing. The only sign of life in the street is an emaciated squirrel darting along the asphalt, its tail held erect in the air and its dark eyes wide with wary vigilance.

He paces up to the door, taking several slow breaths to let his anger course fully through him, power him. There's no rush now, and all he has to worry about is being careful, making sure that he doesn't slip up. Bobby's words are heavy in his ears—_These things are powerful, boy, very powerful. Barely anyone has survived them, and that's why there ain't much reference for me to go on, here. _

_I have to try, _Dean had pointed out. _I don't care how dangerous they are. I'm going to try._

_I know you are, kid. My guess is that the one you're after is weaker than most, that's why it didn't kill you straight off. But you have to be careful, Dean. And not just for your sake. For Sam's, too._

_I will._

The door opens soundlessly, despite the copious rust on the hinges, and reveals a shadowy hallway, bare of furniture and with a carpet-less, splintered floor. Thinking of the bright, cozy interior of the house they've been staying in, he can't help but grimace. This place is disgusting. All too appropriate for the monster who resides in it.

He knows the way to the basement, remembers it from last time, and it's with cold determination that he kicks open the door leading off the hallway, revealing the first couple of cement steps, which then descend away to murky blackness.

The lich is down there, somewhere. _Waiting. _

Quickly, he pulls out his gun, as well as a small flashlight that he holds in his teeth. (_They don't like light, _Bobby warned, _but it'll irritate more than harm 'em. Don't go shinin' any big beams in its eyes, or you'll be dead meat._)

Dean slowly pulls the door shut behind him, gun clenched tight enough for his knuckles to go white, then begins to step down, one stair at a time. The tiny beam from his flashlight pierces the damp air, illuminating a vortex of dust in the otherwise pitch-blackness. Chills tremble down his spine, and he keeps his eyes wide, his arm extended firmly.

Almost to the bottom of the stairs…

Then he hears it—a piercing, ice-cold shriek that freezes his insides and rocks his stomach. He raises his gun arm violently, but it's too late—already, there's frost-blue light blinding him, and he's lifted off his feet, the flashlight hitting the ground and going dark as his shoulder collides painfully with the wall. He lets out a hiss of pain as white lights flash before his eyes, and then he's falling, hitting the ground heavily.

"Son of a _bitch—_"

He props himself up on one elbow, scoops his gun up again. But it's useless, there's nothing to point it at… blood thunders furiously in his ears. _Barely here, and you're already on the floor and blinded. You idiot, how could you ever think—_

_And now it's going to kill you, and you're gonna leave him alone, all alone in the house, waiting for you till he rots…_

That thought is enough motivation for him to pull himself into a crouch despite the ache in all of his limbs, whip the gun up again and point it into the darkness. If only—_matches, _he has matches, but he's barely started to fumble in his jacket pocket when there's another whoosh of cold breeze near his left ear. He springs sideways, barely avoiding a stream of deep crimson light that blasts through the air besides him. It bores into the wall instead, leaving a massive, smoking hole, the edges of which flare briefly orange before smoldering into darkness.

_Millimeters away. _

Things are quiet for a few moments then, save the snap of sparks from the singed corner, and Dean takes advantage of the pause to draw out a couple of the matches, single-handedly dragging one along the side of the box and causing the resulting flame to arch blindingly into the space before him.

Immediately visible is a face.

He'd never gotten a decent glimpse of the creature beforehand, but now it's inches away from him, and it's the closest to something out of a horror story that he's ever encountered. The structure is nothing more than a skull, pale as dusted ivory, with gaping pits for eyes and a macabre grin of a mouth, teeth standing out sharp and stark. A filmy layer of unidentifiable material covers it, almost like stretched cobwebs, glittering and shimmering with the winter-blue glow that seems to illuminate it from within.

"Fuck," he whispers.

And then there's a feeling like a punch in the gut, and he's flying backwards again, the match slipping from his fingers and going dark. He releases three swift shots as his arms flail wildly, but none of them hit home, a fact proven by another blast of energy that zooms past him just as soon as he regains his footing, tailbone stinging. The air itself seems to sway ominously, and he dives out of the way just as one of the rickety wooden shelves lined against the walls tumbles downwards, crashing into a pile of wooden fragments.

A cloud of dust rises from the wreck, and Dean coughs violently, raising his sleeve to his nose and reaching once again for his matches. This time, he strikes one without anything appearing in front of him, and he's just regaining the slightest wisps of confidence when a rope of greenish-yellow light snakes around his legs and trips him, causing him to fall headfirst into the pile of broken wood. He manages to fling out an arm and save himself from the worst of the damage, but the match drops into the dry wreckage.

He wouldn't imagine that a single tiny flame could do so much damage, but the sawdust must help, because suddenly there's flame everywhere, and it's all he can do to heave himself back to his feet, cursing and beating out the edge of his jacket, which has begun to smoke. The gun is still clutched in his hand, and pure fury is coursing through his veins now. He looks up swiftly, the fire lighting his face from below. At least now he can see properly—and, sure enough, there it is. The too-thin form of the lich is bent in a corner on the opposite side of the room, seeming to conjure some sort of spell in-between its spindly skeleton's hands—this one is midnight blue, pulsing rapidly, and Dean knows that it's seconds away from being hurled straight at him.

_This is his chance. _

He aims at it, a clear shot, words burning in his mind—_this is for Sam, you bastard_.

But as his finger draws back the trigger, the blue light explodes before his quarry, and the bullet dissolves as soon as it hits the wall of blazing luminescence.

"Shit," he gasps.

The dark, material luster collects itself into an arrow shape, streaking towards him. He tries to duck again, but it's like a locked-on missile, zipping around to slash at his shoulder. An unwilling cry of pain falls from his lips as the glow pierces him like a dagger, tearing a massive rip in his jacket and the flesh below. Blood spurts wildly from it, and horror pounds in his head as he stumbles backwards. Deep. It's deep.

_Fuck, _it's deep.

The lich flies up next to him, and everything's too bright and too dim at the same time, so that its face is foggy, a blurred mess of silver splashed with flaming orange from the reaching tongues of the fire below. Then shards of ice seem to pierce his chest as its hand settles over him, and he knows that this is it. Blood drips down his arm sluggishly now, and even though he doesn't dare to look, his head is light enough that he knows it can't possibly be a trivial amount.

It's hesitating, though. It's hesitating, and the only reason he can imagine is that it's still gathering its strength, hasn't quite brought its power back up after the dark blue energy spell.

This is his chance to end the fucking thing.

"Suck it, bitch," he manages to rasp, tilting up the nose of the handgun so that it's lodged directly under the creature's ribs and firing without hesitation.

He hears it howl, but the last of his strength is gone, and gray numbness is cascading down on him now, forcing everything else away. He feels himself hitting the ground, but in a vague way, not a painful one.

_I'm sorry, _he thinks, and the last thing he sees is the fire.

* * *

There's something cold on his forehead.

He fidgets slightly, tries to groan and ends up letting out a weak sort of whimper. A bead of moisture from the cool object slips down his cheek, and he twists his head away, trying to escape the chill.

To his relief, the icy thing obediently slips away, to make way for a light draft of air. Slowly, he becomes aware of his other surroundings—hard ground below his body, something warmer and softer propping his head up. Slowly, very slowly, he manages to inch his eyes open, grimacing at the brightness that assaults them. Several blinks later, he focuses enough to see properly—he's still in the cellar of the damn house, but the fire is gone, leaving only a mound of blackened wood, with an electric lantern sitting next to it and casting long shadows over the cement ground. Shoved off to the side is a dusty husk of a figure, like a bug's carapace only rather human-shaped. It takes him several seconds to see the glint of silver peeking out from its desiccated ribs and realize that it must be the remains of the lich.

The warm thing beneath him shifts, and then it clicks into place in his mind—shit, he's in someone's _lap. _He tries to sit up, but an angry throb of almost white-hot agony runs down his arm, and he glances over to see that it's wrapped in a ridiculous amount of gauzy bandages, through which a faint trace of scarlet still manages to show. Tingling pricks of lesser pain that he recognizes as stitches run along the edges of the hidden wound. Someone's done a good job on him, in any case.

"Dean?"

He's never been so relieved to hear someone's voice in his entire life.

"Sam," he groans, settling back fully as his brother leans over him. His face—God, Dean could probably stare at it forever. It's the _right _face, the one that he's used to, not that of the kid. He did it. He killed the lich. Reversed the spell.

_He did it._

"Are you okay? I'd've taken you to a hospital, but I didn't want to move you on my own—and, well, I could hardly call them in… awkward questions." He gestures vaguely to the whole of the scene before them, including the pile of singed wood and shell-like corpse of the lich.

"Awkward questions," Dean agrees. It's something that he's all too used to avoiding, after all.

"I'm sorry I didn't come earlier, but I was waiting for you to come back, then when I realized that something must be wrong, I grabbed everything I could…" He gestures to a large, metal box sitting next to them, its lid painted with a bright red cross. A first-aid kit. "…And took a bus here. Just glad I remembered the address."

"You… _do _remember, then? All of it?"

"All of it," he confirms. "And…" The corner of his mouth turns up slightly, almost apologetically. "Thanks, Dean. For… everything, you know."

"Don't you dare get sappy on me," Dean shoots back, exhaling heavily and letting his eyes drift shut again as he relaxes fully. "You're the one who saved my ass just now, in any case."

"For now. We should still keep a close eye on it, though, it was a bad wound, you really shouldn't have gone so far to—"

"Hey, what'd I just say?"

"Bad manners not to accept gratitude, jerk."

"Bitch," is all Dean mutters in response, but he can't quite keep a grin off his face.


End file.
